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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27650999">Relation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan'>Janekfan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>TMA prompt fics [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Caretaking, Fever, Friendship, Gen, Hard to get, Hurt/Comfort, Jon doesn't mean to be bad at making frens, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fic, Sickfic, Tim! - Freeform, smol jon rights, the voice of reason!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:34:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,973</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27650999</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: something precanon with Jon and Tim? tim's been trying to befriend an isolated/lonely researcher jon that no one's a fan of, sees him sick or being bothered by someone or any one of our usual terrible scenarios and is immediately like 'is anyone gonna take care of this man??'</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>TMA prompt fics [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082912</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>266</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Relation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Short but I hope you like it!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim flipped his pen around in his fingers, internally cheering when he executed the trick shot over his thumb, and kept an eye on Research’s newest recruit. The tiny man, stuffy and pompous and peculiar, had only been with them a little over a week and from day one Tim marked him as a challenge.</p><p>He would become this angry and diminutive fellow’s best friend, so help them both. </p><p>Currently, one Jonathan Sims was balanced on the tips of his patent leather brogues, stretching up for a volume he could never hope to reach and Tim, seeing his moment of opportunity, allowed his shadow to fall over him as he easily retrieved it for him. </p><p>“Tim. Tim Stoker.” He gave over the book along with a beaming grin and an introduction, holding a hand out for him to shake and lifting a brow when all Jon did was glare skeptically at his open palm, arms tightening around his prize. </p><p>“Sims.” Imperiously, with the slightest lift of his chin. “Jon. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Stoker.” If Tim had been quicker on the uptake, he would have replied with the customary <i>that was my father</i>, but as it was he found himself faced with the stiff line of his back as he walked swiftly deeper into the stacks. </p><p>He was awkward and prickly, for sure, there was no getting around that, but knowledgeable and worked hard at his job, harder than Tim currently was anyway with this quest to focus on. Jon kept his head down, literally, at his desk he was nigh folded in half for most of the shift, not even stopping for lunch most of the time unless something broke his hyperfocus and he caught sight of the clock. No wonder he was so scrawny, just skin and bone beneath his crisp starched shirts and prim jumpers. So Tim began leaving snacks behind; a piece of fruit, bottle of water, cereal bar, a bit of chocolate, and it gave him no end of amusement each and every time Jon noticed. Feet up on his own desk, Tim would watch Jon glance around, ignoring the irritated looks of their coworkers while he tried to puzzle out who kept doing it and the first time he actually took a bite tasted of sweet, sweet victory. </p><p>Time passed, Tim finally convinced Jon to call him by his first name and was soundly told off for attempting to call him Jonny. He learned of his preference for tea over coffee, that he was raised by his grandmother, and feared spiders absolutely, having been the unfortunate recipient of a harmless office prank. It was no secret that Jon was not well liked and didn’t seem to care. He became the butt of many a joke and impersonation. That posh accent, put on or not, was too good to pass up and his lack of social acumen didn’t help his case even though he was smart as a whip and picked up any slack by virtue of staying late. </p><p> </p><p>“Bags under your eyes are looking heavy today.” </p><p>“Hm? Oh, Tim.” Jon rubbed a knuckle under the rim of his glasses. “Yes, I. I haven’t been sleeping well.” He dropped into his chair heavily, pressing fingertips against his temples and massaging them. </p><p>“Take a sick day. You’ve put in enough over time.” Jon craned his neck, blinked up at him with a confused look, as though he were trying to figure out a difficult puzzle. </p><p>“M’alright.” Mumbling, the wood grain suddenly seemed very interesting. “You should get to work though.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whoa! Not my boss there yet, Jonny-boy!” It elicited a familiar, nettlesome response and put Tim’s heart at ease. Jon probably was just tired. </p><p>“Oi, you daft twit, watch where you’re going.” Tim turned the corner on his return from lunch to find Jon scrambling amongst a sprawl of papers, frantically trying to collect them up.</p><p>“S’sorry, I’ll help--” </p><p>“Done enough, sod off.” Jon froze, muttered another apology and handed off the pages he’d gathered together.</p><p>“You alright?” Sidling up to him, Tim did him the favor of ignoring the trembling line of Jon’s mouth. “Guy’s just being a prick ‘cause his wife’s leavin’ him.” </p><p>“Fine, m’fine, Tim.” And in a moment he was, back at his desk and pointedly thumbing through a file and pretending to cross check his notes. </p><p>The next morning was no better and Jon arrived under the wire, hair unkempt and tie just slightly crooked. Very unlike him and this time he watched as Jon let his head tip forward for a few seconds, bracing himself on the arms of his chair before retreating into the forest of bookshelves. If left to his own devices, Tim was <i>sure</i> he’d end up ticking the librarians off again. He tended to leave a mess in his wake when searching for what he needed and when he didn’t reappear by noon, Tim went off in search of him, expecting to find him leafing through some manuscript or another and instead discovering him cross legged in the shadows, eyes closed, head tipped back and resting on a shelf. There was a short stack of books pertaining to his research by his knee but his hands were empty and still in his lap. </p><p>“What’s wrong?” Jon made a vague gesture. “Headache?”</p><p>“Mm. Didn’t mean to, to...uh.”</p><p>“End up on the floor?” </p><p>“Mm. </p><p>“You should go home.” The very suggestion drew his features into a frown and he cracked open dark lashes just enough for Tim to catch a glimpse of glassy brown.</p><p>“I’ve barely worked here a month, I. I can’t. I <i>can’t</i> skive off.”</p><p>“You’re ill, Jon. That’s not--Look, look.” Tim crouched beside him. “It’s okay to call off sick.” It had the opposite effect, and Tim had to steady Jon after he struggled to his feet with his armful of books. “Jon.”</p><p>“No, no. I’ll be over whatever this is by tomorrow.” </p><p>Tim sighed. Jon was, in fact, not over whatever he’d come down with, and was now stifling a series of wet, breathless coughs in the crook of his elbow, unaware of the dirty looks the other researchers were throwing his way. The harder Tim tried to make him see reason, the harder Jon resisted, insisting that he was fine, it was allergies or something else but he wasn’t feeling ill enough to miss work. </p><p>“I’m holding you up as we speak.” Sluggish, Jon’s eyes tracked Tim’s arm from where it was attached to his shoulder all the way down to the firm grip he had on his bicep to keep him from listing even further. </p><p>“Jus’...bit dizzy…” </p><p>“Yeah, that’s not a good thing.” </p><p>“I can, I can still do my job.” And Tim wasn’t quite sure who he was trying to convince. “I can.” Tim allowed him his arm back, not commenting on his barely controlled fall into his desk chair or the soft groan of pain that ended in another fit, weaker than the last. </p><p>“I know you can, I just want to see you take care of yourself.” </p><p>“Why?” Bloodshot eyes narrowed in suspicion and Tim didn’t know what to make of it. </p><p>“We’re friends?” </p><p>“We’re not.” Tim didn’t let it discourage him or take it personally. Clearly, Jon wasn’t well, was trying to convince himself that he was, that he didn’t need help. Besides, Tim looked on the bright side, Jon didn’t sound completely sure. </p><p>“Alright. Well, as your not-friend, I’m advising you to at least make yourself some tea.” </p><p>“I’ll take it under advisement.” </p><p>“<i>Christ</i>, Sims!” </p><p>“I, I’m sorry, let me, let me help.”</p><p>“You’ve done quite enough.” It seemed to Tim that wherever Jon was lately he was in some sort of trouble and when he veered into the breakroom to check on the situation his heart went out to the Lilliputian researcher. Jon had dropped and shattered a mug full of hot water, apparently splashing the man currently yelling at him. Tim took in his trembling hands, the flush high on his vacant face, and the unbearable vulnerability, feeling those big brother instincts rise like a tide. He caught him up again by the arm, drawing him away from the mess and the mumbling. </p><p>“You’re like a furnace, buddy.” Gently, with a cupped hand, Tim lifted his jaw and tried to catch his slippery gaze. The heat cradled in his palm was scorching. </p><p>“M’not.” </p><p>“Now you’re just being contrary.” He led him away with his fingers just at the small of his back stopping at their desks long enough to gather up his things and call for a cab. He balked, hesitating before stepping in and Tim encouraged him with another careful push, helping him back out again when his knees threatened to give. Guiding him inside the flat he dropped their stuff by the door and looked around with a pensive hum. “Next time we’ll go to mine.” Under his breath. Jon’s was cold and not well lit, sparsely furnished with a second hand couch and mismatched tables. It was clean if spartan and somehow very Jon. </p><p>“Tim?” Thready, tired, sinking into the couch where Tim deposited him. </p><p>“Hey, there. Back in a tick. I’m gonna get you that tea.” Assuming he had any. Assuming he had anything at all. But there was a bottle of paracetamol on the kitchen counter beside an open box tea and a bottle of honey. “Take these, drink this down.” Dimly, Jon followed his instructions, tugging at his buttons and Tim shooed him away to change, surprised when he returned in soft, overlarge clothes. For as prim and proper as he tried to be at work, Jon was a complete bum at home. “Should go to sleep.” Petulant, Jon shook his head, flopping back on the couch and wrapping himself up in a knitted throw like a burrito. “Why not?” This side of his coworker was so soft and unexpected and Tim couldn’t stop himself. </p><p>“M’not tired.” Soft, unexpected, and childish. </p><p>“Uh huh.” Tim ordered in, something spicy and brothy, and praised Jon’s progress before tugging him, cajoling him into lying his head in his lap. Bad telly droned on, half lidded eyes blinked slow, and Tim was reminded painfully of nights and weekends and mornings spent this exact same way with someone else. Someone gone.</p><p>“Why’re you doing this?” Tim dug his fingers into unruly curls, grinning stupidly when Jon melted like a scruffed cat. </p><p>“We’re buddies, buddy.” Jon laughed, just an exhale between parted lips. </p><p>Mid afternoon the following day Tim proclaimed his work done, confirming it when Jon’s cactus like demeanor made a reappearance with all his fussing. After inputting his number into his cell phone himself, he ruffled already sleep mussed hair, smirking at Jon’s futile attempt to set it right. </p><p>“Call if you need anything.” </p><p>“I will.” Tim knew he wouldn’t, but it made him feel better anyway. It was the weekend. Jon looked miles better, and he was set up for success with all his tea and meds and snacks within easy reach. Leftover soup waited in the fridge for him to heat later. “Stop fretting, Tim.” But he could hear the thread of affection buried under all the exasperation. </p><p>And if he was imagining it, well. He was ever an optimist. </p><p> </p><p>Monday. And Tim was sat on the corner of Jon's desk shoving chocolate digestives into his mouth and rifling through his notes having already ignored one request to leave off. </p><p>“You don’t have many friends, do you Jon?” Jon pushed his glasses up from where they’d slipped down the bridge of his nose and selected a biscuit for himself.</p><p>“Never needed many.” </p><p>“Do you have <i>any</i>?” Jon snatched the pages out of his hand and brushed away any stray crumbs, offering Tim a shy smile. </p><p>“I’ve you, don’t I?”</p>
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